


Father Brown and the Mysteries of the Rosary

by demonkatgurl17



Series: The Father Brown ABO Mysteries [2]
Category: Father Brown (2013)
Genre: Alpha Hercule Flambeau, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Character Study, Gen, Light Angst, Omega Father Brown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-10-08 04:35:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17379665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demonkatgurl17/pseuds/demonkatgurl17
Summary: Father Brown finds himself on the hunt for a lost relic and must rely on an old adversary to save a friend.





	Father Brown and the Mysteries of the Rosary

**Author's Note:**

> I'm tired even as I write this. I've had it mostly finished for over a day and I'm shoving it up to free my mind for part 3 contemplation and another WIP I'm in the middle of. I do rather like this one, though I also liked this tv episode, so that helped (I'm iffy on how I feel about the 3rd). So anyway, here it is.

The cigarette lying on Ambrose’s doorstep was innocuous, if out of place, so naturally Father Brown picked it up, wondering if it had anything to do with the break-in or his missing friend.

An ostentatious brand. The barest hint of alpha scent.

Funny how something as small as a crushed cigarette could send a wave of panic through him, but indeed it did, and at once Father Brown knew matters were more complicated than they seemed if Hercule Flambeau was involved.

But perhaps it was nothing, mere coincidence, just Father Brown’s fears projecting wildly because Ambrose had nothing that would lure the likes of Flambeau to his home.

 

 

 

 

 

Which was true enough, for such an item came later that afternoon in the post. And until Father Brown found himself on the wrong end of an umbrella, he hadn’t realized that he’d been holding his breath since happening upon that crushed cigarette. What little breath Father Brown still had was knocked right out of him at the sight of his savior.

Flambeau.

Father Brown coughed himself red in the face, trying to get his breath back. His attacker - a young alpha male (unstable by the looks of it) - had been run off by Flambeau, who was _far_ more dangerous. 

Effortlessly suave in his earthy suit, Flambeau slung his makeshift garrote about his neck, looking cool and calm as though thwarting would-be attackers was a run of the mill occurrence for him. Ever the gentleman, he helped Father Brown to his feet, only Father Brown didn’t feel any more sure-footed than when he’d been half choked out on the ground.

And the way Flambeau held his hand a moment too long, cold eyes watching him closely, didn’t help matters any.

Seating himself on a low stone wall a respectable distance away from the alpha, Father Brown tried to re-center himself. It was a difficult task with Flambeau hovering nearby looking so smug, all but _preening_ over the rescue. He was grateful for the man’s assistance, certainly, but already there were too many knowns in this game: Ambrose’s disappearance, the whereabouts of a lost holy relic, the number of people involved in all of it.

Adding Flambeau to the mix was akin to throwing a match into a barrel of gunpowder.

Everything would explode into mayhem. It was only a matter of _when_.

It was reckless, chasing after Flambeau, knowing what the alpha was capable of, but Father Brown would get no answers by sitting about on a wall. Not that Flambeau was the forthcoming type. His tales of being a church mercenary washed off Father Brown like water off a duck’s back - the Vatican’s memory was long and he very much doubted that the attempted theft of the Blue Cross would ever be forgotten or forgiven to make such an arrangement possible - but it was the insinuation that Father Brown needed Flambeau’s protection that truly riled him. The mere insinuation that he, as an _omega_ , needed an _alpha’s_ protection was galling at best and, at worst, insulting. Father Brown had _never_ needed protection, outside of God’s love and deliverance. If Flambeau (an alpha of _questionable_ morality, who had threatened Father Brown himself!) believed him to be another sheep in need of a shepherd, then Flambeau would do well to watch out for this old omega’s staff.

Or, well, umbrella.

Metaphorically, speaking, of course.

Their combined efforts uncovered the next clue, which helped to mollify the lingering irk of Flambeau’s jab. Perhaps there _was_ merit in joining forces with the alpha. This way, he could keep a weather eye out for any tricks if ( _when_ ) the rosary was found.

 

 

 

 

 

His irritation came back full-force in the pub.

_“You need to learn to trust me.”_

He already bloody well _was_ trusting Flambeau.

Every moment spent in the alpha’s presence rattled his nerves, which were already strained by Ambrose’s disappearance ( _kidnapping_ ).

What if Flambeau were to let it slip that he was an omega? _Sid_ , Father Brown could trust to keep a secret, but the _rest_ of the pub was another matter. Someone would notice and word would spread. His life would be over - not literally, no, he wouldn’t be executed for hiding his true orientation. But he would be publically slandered, most assuredly disowned by the Church, his home and livelihood torn asunder.

He would have nothing.

_Trust him._

Father Brown grit his teeth to keep his smart mouth to himself, grit them even harder when Flambeau walked off with a pretty beta waitress, cocky smirk in place and a swagger in his step.

Morals of an alley cat, indeed.

Tucked into bed, Father Brown did his best to keep his mind turned towards the next day’s journey and _not_ on the noises Flambeau was drawing out of said waitress in the adjacent room.

 

 

 

 

 

“That beta following you around, he’s seems very _loyal_. Does he know?”

Prepared as he was to defend Sid’s honor, Father Brown instead found himself gaping at Flambeau’s profile, blindsided by the abrupt switch in topics. _Finally_ , they had come to it, the elephant in the room in all its glory. Odd that he was shocked at all. It wasn’t as though the alpha made a point to abide by society’s rules, much less social niceties like _discussing one’s second gender_.

Glancing between the road ahead and Father Brown, Flambeau laughed, his voice low and dark with delight at having caught Father Brown so off-guard. “Come now, Father, surely you aren’t going to continue your little charade when it’s just the two of us? No one to overhear, no one to be afraid of.”

“You think I’m afraid of you?”

“Hmm…certainly not in the way that you _ought,”_ Flambeau said lightly. Father Brown was reminded of the violence this man was capable of, memory rising of that poor man strung up and beaten at the docks that night. “But yes, I think you are afraid. Because I don’t think _anyone_ knows about you. You _reek_ of beta, you certainly _act_ the part, which I commend.” Flambeau eyed him from the driver’s seat, seeming impressed. “You nearly had _me_ fooled. If all that running around after me hadn’t cleared away some of the scent blockers and hormone suppressants in your system, I would have been just as duped as the rest of your flock.”

“ _Duped_ - _?_ ”

“Yes, quite the deception. Not what you would expect from a man of the cloth. Are you _sure_ you’re in the right profession?”

Father Brown’s indignant retort died before he could properly form one, as Flambeau turned the car onto the gravel path of the Penhallick estate.

 

 

 

 

 

Father Brown watched Flambeau and Lady Penhallick from across the room, not because he felt intrusive or unwelcome - alright, _yes_ , he did, but normally he could push past layers of social niceties in the name of solving a mystery - but because of the pheromones Flambeau and the woman were giving off; she, against all odds, was an unmated omega. Her too sweet scent, cloying, like that of an overripe fruit, mixed with the heady scent of alpha, their musk almost overpowering in its intensity.

Father Brown dared not come closer or else risk embarrassing himself  - whether by vomiting or hardening, he wasn’t sure.

He _very much_ wanted to leave the room, if only to find air that didn’t threaten to overwhelm his senses and drive him mad, but then Flambeau would be left alone with Lady Penhallick and he couldn’t stand the _thought_ of that, couldn’t find it in him to trust the alpha to share any clues that this last living heir might be privy to. His own secrets be damned, it was now Ambrose’s life on the line, and Father Brown needed to find the rosary - and _not_ let it slip away to parts unknown with Flambeau.

_Trust him_.

Father Brown wished he could, if only so he wouldn’t have to watch this nauseating caricature of a courting.

Flambeau was _shameless_. The heavy eye contact, standing so close, looking so strong and handsome, manipulating the very _air_ around him to bend Lady Penhallick to his will. He was so obvious in his persuasion that the display somehow transcended into art…and the woman took the bait hook, line, and sinker, staring at Flambeau as if mesmerized, giving Father Brown nothing but cold glares and clipped responses whenever he would _dare_ to interject, doing everything he could to hurry this agonizing visit along.

After finally, _finally,_ being allowed to see the painting and finally, _finally_ , retreating from the estate, Father Brown breathed as deeply as he could of the fresh, pheromone-free air. If he seemed a bit cold to the alpha sitting in the car next to him, well, Father Brown was simply trying to concentrate on the quest at hand.

 

 

 

 

 

“I’m _not_ afraid.”

Flambeau cocked his head slightly, keeping an eye on the road while flicking a confused glance over at Father Brown, the very arc of his brow urging the older man to continue.

“Of others knowing.”

That brow didn’t move a jot. Not a word or a sound from Flambeau. It was almost as though he were waiting-

Father Brown sighed. Of course…

“…that I’m an _omega_.”

Finally. It was out. It had been _decades_ since he’d talked of it, not since he’d presented, when he and his father agreed that the world they lived in was flawed and imbalanced, with limited opportunities for omegas.

In the end, there really had been no choice at all.

“It was necessary,” Father Brown said, those three words neatly glossing over the turmoil that had raged within him as a teenager, balking at a life of childbearing and limitation and dull, _dull_ monotony, and thank the Lord because his father had understood and did all he could to convince the world that his son was a beta, somehow managing to get a hold of colognes that beta males favored and illegal suppressants on an already paltry income. Everything Father Brown now had - his position, friendships and respect - it existed because of his desire to be more than what society would have allowed him to be.

“Are you afraid of what you are? Do you hide because of shame?”

“I’m not ashamed of what I am.”

“And yet you hide it. Hide _from_ it. You were nearly _cringing_ in the Penhallick Estate. Are you so repressed that can’t even deal with other omegas?”

“I wasn’t _cringing_ ,” Father Brown shot back. “She _clearly_ preferred your questioning over mine. I thought it best to give you room to work. And, besides, _one of us,”_ he said pointedly, “needed to maintain some measure of _decency_. As for why I hide my orientation, the answer is simple: what I want from life isn’t normally a choice for someone…someone like me. It’s a little white lie that hurts no one.”

“Bending the rules for personal gain…you’re more like me than you think.”

Not hardly. “You don’t _bend_ rules, Hercule, you _break them_.”

“Some rules _ought_ to be broken,” Flambeau challenged.

Privately Father Brown agreed, but he wasn’t about to give the alpha the satisfaction of a victory. Already Flambeau considered himself above society’s rules, he didn’t need validation from the Church to continue his misdeeds.

As though anything Father Brown could say would change the man’s ways.

Flambeau managed a win over him anyway, tricking him out of the car and driving on through the gate and beyond, leaving an incredulous Father Brown to chase after him ( _again_ ).

 

 

 

 

 

_“Once he gets his hands on that rosary, you will not see Flambeau for dust.”_

 

Sid's warning echoed in Father Brown's memory, quickening his pace, pressuring him to stoop to Flambeau’s level just to catch up, stealing (borrowing) an old man’s bicycle.

There had been no need to rush. When he finally got to the priory, Flambeau was still empty handed, if tetchy about all the hoops he was jumping through, all in the name of a long-lost trinket. Standing in the rediscovered secret burial chamber with the rosary, the warning echoed through Father Brown again as the police klaxons approached, and it grew louder when Flambeau seized his moment to make off with his prize.

 

_“Once he gets his hands on that rosary, you will not see Flambeau for dust.”_

It was with a heavy heart that Father Brown returned to the presbytery. What would the kidnapper do to his friend now that the rosary was in the wind again?

  

Flambeau has used him.

 

_Typical alpha,_ Father Brown thought, then immediately felt ashamed for his own slander, a harsh stereotype that did no one any good.

 

He said a silent prayer for forgiveness of his lapse as he mused over the invitation in his hand, noting that the same mission his attacker - Jacob - had lived at was the same one headed by Ignatius. Was the newly appointed Monsignor involved?

 

He was pulled out it his troubled thoughts by a familiar voice, tempered by pain, asking for his help.

 

Flambeau.

 

It didn't even occur to Father Brown to refuse.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“How long?”

 

“Hmm?” Father Brown held a cloth with antiseptic solution firmly to Flambeau's shoulder.

 

“How long have you been hiding what you are?”

 

Father Brown was quiet for a long moment, in part to ensure that they really were alone. “Since I presented.” He glanced at Flambeau, saw the shock slacking his face despite the pain he must be in. “Now it's not all _that_ bad,” he admonished lightly.

 

Flambeau gave a low whistle. “And I thought _I_ could pull off a long con. To have been shown up a _priest_ ….”

 

“It's not a con-”

 

“So if you dropped all your pretenses, there would be no repercussions?”

 

Father Brown was silent because he _knew_ that Bishop Talbot would seize any chance to oust him from his roost. His silence must have been telling because Flambeau leaned in, keeping his voice low though they were alone.

 

“ _That's_ how you know.”

 

Father Brown flushed with shame. The man was right, of course. A harmless white lie, he’d told himself. In truth, the lie made all the difference because, as an omega, he never would have been allowed the opportunity to serve his country or the, later, the Church, would never have been allowed to serve a power higher than a spouse. Everything he was, was built on a lie and, God help him, after so long he just didn't have the strength to stop now.

 

Maybe Flambeau had been right about their being alike. And yet…

 

“My intent is not malicious,” he said softly, carefully beginning to wind the bandaging around Flambeau's arm. And it wasn't, not really, at least to no one but himself, but Father Brown was long used to suppressing his heats and hormones; he doubted he would know how to live as an omega after passing for a beta for so long.

 

“The road to hell is paved with good intentions,” Flambeau cajoled, a playful smirk on his lips.

 

“Yes, well, my current _intention_ ,” Father Brown tucked the end of the bandage away, looking pointedly at the alpha, “is to save Ambrose.”

 

Flambeau carefully redressed. “Ever the Good Samaritan,” he said with a shake of his head. “And here I thought I was special. Does that mean you're done trying to save my soul?”

 

“I'm not giving up on you.” Lord only knew why. Maybe it was intuition, but the day they had met, Father Brown was sure that he had glimpsed a part of the skeptic thief that longed for something more than selfish materialism, that wanted to be part of something bigger than him. If he abandoned Flambeau now, the alpha might never reach out for help again.

 

“Maybe you should.” Flambeau stood and walked away without a backward glance.

 

Stunned by the comment at much as the man's move to flee, Flambeau was nearly to the door before Father Brown rose to give chase (always chasing after this man, he was). “Flambeau, please! Give me the rosary, for Ambrose's sake!”

 

But he was gone.

 

Father Brown stood in the graveyard, panting a little, panicking. The rosary was gone. Again, he had nothing left to barter his friend's life with.

 

Movement caught his eye.

 

Swinging lightly on his bike's handlebars was the rosary. He didn't quite believe it until he held it in his hands.

 

Flambeau had left it for Father Brown.

 

Ambrose could yet be saved.

 

And, perhaps, so could Flambeau.           

 

 

 

 

 

 

_'Faith is so overrated.'_

 

Honestly, he wasn't even sure that he was upset that Flambeau had stolen the rosary once more when the chaos had settled. Had he expected the alpha's new leaf would stay turned? One good deed did not change a lifetime of compulsive thievery. Thankfully, Flambeau had waited until after Ambrose was saved before making off with the rosary - it wasn't so much his actions that Father Brown appreciated, but his _intent:_ Flambeau had set aside his own ambition (temporarily) to do something _good_.

 

And it gave Father Brown hope.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and criticisms welcome. Find me at collared-fantasies@tumblr.com (cuz let's face it, none of us really left that troll hole of a site).


End file.
